


Logic, Lore, and Law

by HeronS



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Betrayal, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan mysticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-14 11:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10535424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeronS/pseuds/HeronS
Summary: Stonn has been shut away in a dark freighter with aliens and a grieving, devastated bondmate for three months. He needs to find a way to patch up their world, to make sense of what happened during that insanity-laced afternoon three months ago at the sacred plateau outside ShiKahr. It would be so much simpler if he was only feeling remorse and guilt, but the truth is that he is also so angry at Spock and T'Pring that he can hardly think straight.He's had it with these impossible Surakisi and their noble mysticism and High Vulcan ceremonies. It was what got the three of them into this mess in the first place.(Also a birthday fic for WeirdLittleStories, who wanted a story about Spock and friendship that wasn't (solely) focused on the Enterprise crew.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeirdLittleStories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdLittleStories/gifts).



> This fic is based on the TOS episode Amok Time. 
> 
> SPOCK: T'Pring. Explain.  
> T'PRING: Specify.  
> SPOCK: Why the challenge, and why you chose my captain as your champion.  
> T'PRING: Stonn wanted me, I wanted him.  
> SPOCK: I see no logic in preferring Stonn over me.  
> T'PRING: You have become much known among our people, Spock. Almost a legend. And as the years went by, I came to know that I did not want to be the consort of a legend. But by the laws of our people, I could only divorce you by the kal-if-fee. There was also Stonn, who wanted very much to be my consort, and I wanted him. If your Captain were victor, he would not want me, and so I would have Stonn. If you were victor you would free me because I had dared to challenge, and again I would have Stonn. But if you did not free me, it would be the same. For you would be gone, and I would have your name and your property, and Stonn would still be there.

The technical details of what Spock does to the dome’s airlock go right over Stonn’s head. As usual. But then there is a small burst of smoke coming out of the frame panel and suddenly the airlock cycles and they are finally out in the open.

Away from the aliens. Alone.

Spock turns, head tilted, body still, face emotionless. But with Spock the tells are always in the eyes and the hands, Stonn knows. He once saw him pass the eleventh _chala_ with perfect, unaffected composure. It earned rare praise from their childhood instructor - but all the while his eyes were dancing with a secret mirth that only Stonn and T’Pring could see.

Now Spock’s hands are held deceptively loose at his sides, and the sheer blank darkness in his eyes tell Stonn that there is a tsunami of emotion straining against that iron control.

Good.

“Explain,” Spock says.

“I came here seeking you.”

“I have no reason to listen to anything you have to say.”

Stonn closes his eyes and his nostrils flare. The human colony here at David Echo Three clearly treasure the safety that their dome offers them. They are afraid of the heat and alienness of the half-terraformed desert around them. But Stonn is a Vulcan, and while he might not have been born on the sands of the Forge, he has viewed it as his adoptive homeland ever since his teens. The desert around them calls to him.

“I am not here to talk,” he says.

In a deliberate gesture, he half turns his back to the other Vulcan and wrenches off his tunic. He ties it around his waist and spares a second to make certain that his boots are tight. Then he rises again, unclips the water skin from his belt and tosses it to Spock, who catches it automatically. Stonn can see that the small amount of patience that Spock’s _Surakisi_ upbringing has forced him to extend is fast disappearing. Instead of saying anything further, Stonn just turns and heads out towards the desert at a dead run.

The first fifty meters are the customary shock to his system, before his thoracic diaphragm pops. From one breath to the next his lung volume almost doubles, and as the glenaline starts pumping through his system he is fully, gloriously alive.

More importantly, he is, for a little while, faster than Spock.

Stonn knows that the most likely way for this to end is for Spock to catch up to him in the long run. He’s not afraid - with exception of that insanity-laced afternoon three months ago at the sacred plateau outside ShiKahr, he’s never been afraid of Spock. He is determined that he’s not going to start now. He calculates that the most probable course of action is for Spock to throw him to the ground and pin him there, and then deliver a passive aggressive line before rendering Stonn unconscious with a tal derya, leaving him for a human ambulance to find.

That scenario does not interest him, and he needs to find a way to bolster the chances of alternative scenarios. Spock has no reason to listen to him - it follows that Stonn must provide him with a reason.

He hears his name, shouted.

He runs. One breath is enough for seven point four meters. He sails over the cracked, dry landscape, the semi-arid desert around him flat for now, but rising inexorably in a hill up to his left. He fixes it in his mind, lowers his head, and _runs_.

==========

The first time he ever saw the two of them, they were running side by side on the outskirts of the Forge.

The night has enveloped the Vulcan desert with a crisp cold that finds its way into every part of his body. It is the antithesis of the blistering heat of the day. Stonn is from the south, close to the tempering sea, and the stark contrasts of this bleak northern landscape are almost irresistible to him.

The two Vulcans on the sand below could be straight from a pre-reformation poem. By Vulcan lore, a young woman and her bondmate can certainly run the Forge at night like, racing the lematyas, dressed in desert robes and with _ahn-wohns_ slung about their shoulders. By Vulcan modern law, however, underage citizens have no business being in restricted areas with free-ranging predators without several different permits.

Stonn has the permits. They’re appended to his official file - he may spend the night in the Forge to finish the poem he is writing, providing he does not leave his flyer. But the rules are always different for the _Surakisi_.

The desert is barren in one place, exploding with life in another. This is the birthplace of the Vulcan Academies, the most revered institutes of higher learning in the Federation. It’s also the home of several ancient temples that might not even acknowledge that their planet is round. Life and destruction; science and mysticism. The lore and the law, existing side by side. The contradiction at the heart of Vulcan.

That’s what’s drawn him here. That’s what he’s been searching for with his poems. So what is he doing up here in the flyer, safe, observing?

He descends, and lands a few hundred meters before the pair. He waits by the flyer and fascination and expectation grow in his belly. He’s never truly spoken with a _Surakisi_ before, but of course they would be out here, dressed in desert robes, carrying ancient weapons... It fits all descriptions that he’s heard and fantasies that he’s had about the people from these old families that aliens always mistake for a noble or priest caste.

The two runners slow down and come to a stop by his flyer. He is very conscious of his modern jacket and pants.

“I am T’Pring ch’Dara,” the female says, in High Vulcan. For her, it's one of her several mother tongues. For Stonn, it is a subject in school, taught in history class.

Her eyes are like a smoldering fire. She’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“Stonn,” he replies. It comes out almost in a whisper and realizes he has no idea what to say next.

She considers him a moment and then exchanges a look with her companion.

“This is my bondmate,” she continues, a touch of adolescent pride in her voice that she is quite unable to mask. “Spock.”

Stonn’s eyes widen at the name and he manages to wrench his gaze from T’Pring to the young man beside her. He’s strong, lithe, and looks remarkably... Vulcan.

It would be illogical for T’Pring to supply his family name.

After all, everyone knows Spock. At fourteen, he is already a legend.

 

===============

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, and what you think will happen in future chapters. There are 7 chapters planned all in all, and most of them are already written.


	2. Chapter 2

Stonn runs. The landscape is a blur around him. The local star is hidden behind thick layers of dust from the terraforming process, but he can feel the radiation warming his skin through the clouds.

Ten kilometers. Fifteen. Had he run at a normal pace, he could have kept this up for far longer, but unlike the hybrid behind him - Spock has stopped shouting Stonn's name - his greater lung volume lets him double his speed for a short amount of time. His ancestors used that extra speed to catch _sehlats_ or _varen_ beasts, but Stonn is a modern Vulcan living in a modern city and the most he's ever raced to catch are Terran baseballs and Tellarite boomerangs. In any case, it has the same end result. The available glucose in his system eventually burns through and the lactic acid goes from noteworthy to problematic in just a few heartbeats.

It'll happen soon, but not quite yet. For now he's just here, just present, alive and aware of it in a way that only the desert can make him.

Spock's closing in. He's faster than he was seventeen years ago, the last time they ran the Forge. For a moment the physicist-poets who insist that time does not really exist make perfect sense to Stonn. All the times they have run together is the same time, and Stonn wishes he could stay in that interminable now. Maybe, just maybe, Spock will feel the same.

He's almost up the side of a steep hill, and he powers through the last few meters on sheer willpower.

He falls to his knees. His spent muscles can't handle the sudden force and he falls forward and to the left, landing hard on his bent arm for a moment. His body screams at him and he's momentarily stunned as he devotes all his energy to mute the pain.

Spock runs up beside him half a minute later, stands over him, looking down. The half-Vulcan is out of breath, but not dangerously so. It was always like that - T'Pring and Stonn were faster, if they wanted to, but Spock could run for _hours_.

Stonn tries to say something to that effect, but his lungs aren't yet capable of forming an air stream that is steady enough.

"Don't speak," Spock orders and pulls out a small foldable tricorder. He runs it over the other man, and Stonn lets himself fall backwards, gracelessly. His eyes are fastened at the stern features of the other.

The last time they met, Spock's eyes had been cloudy with plak tow madness. All signs of Stonn's childhood friend had been burned away by the mating fever, leaving only an incoherent creature bound by biology and the deep psychological conditioning of Vulcan tradition. Both these bonds grant Spock absolution for what happened three months previously on those ancient, cruel, blood-washed sands - absolution from both the lore and the law. Until a few minutes ago, Stonn had dared hope that Spock would, at least, have accepted that absolution for himself.

He can see in Spock's eyes, now, that that has not happened.

They are really so much alike, this man towering over him and the mate that Stonn has left back on the freighter. Duty-bound. Proud. Utterly impossible. _Surakisi_.

* * *

Most of the time the three of them are not friends. Friendship is a purely emotional relationship, and in ages past it led to war and strife and never-ending series of vendettas. Vulcan loyalty runs deep: deep and dangerous. Modern Vulcan has learnt to view it with scepticism.

So they are not friends, only associates, in school or during the educational trips they take together. But when they are out on the Forge, Vulcan law and modern Vulcan sensibilities gets hazy like the heat waves off the sand.

By the lore, in ages past, they would be known as a _katen_ , Stonn knows: a self-selected gathering of youngsters. The _katen_ are mostly known from long rhyming songs about raids and vendettas, but Surak himself had a _katen_ , and eventually some of those few trusted people became the heart of his council.

Just as Vulcans should not have friends, Vulcans should not have enemies. But Spock has both.

Stonn and T'Pring have come to know that there are Vulcans who carry and nurture disgust and hate for Spock, just for being alive. They deal with them on a case by case basis. If the haters are Surakisi there are old traditions and ceremonial challenges that they can be used. Because Spock and T'Pring are from the families that they are from, teachers and parents turn a blind eye. The law tries not to tangle with the lore.

Those people are not the most difficult, though. The worst are the serene Vulcans who come up to Spock and calmly state that they consider his very existence to be ethically wrong. That his mother and father are immoral. That he should have been aborted, and failing that, should now be exiled and sterilized. They say it in a polite, dispassionate manner. In school, Spock merely notes their words and says little in return.

Stonn knows that this restraint makes Spock's father proud. So he follows T'Pring's lead and does nothing to interfere.

Later, out on the forge, though, Spock will practice tortuously slow katas or meditate for hours. Stonn tries to get him to talk about it, like they do in the South, to acknowledge their emotions so that they can deconstruct them, deal with them. But that is not the Surakisi way.

Then, when the meditation is, predictably, not enough, they will spar or run for hours until all the confusing emotions, all the anger and frustration, disappears because there is simply no room for anything but the desert and the search for the next breath.

* * *

_**Author's Note: I'll try to update again tomorrow - thanks so much for the reviews WeirdLittleStories and GA!** _

**_I am consciously staying a bit vague on some issues here, I think it fits with the theme of Vulcan mysticism. But I'm hoping it's not so confusing that it's frustrating, only tantalizing._ **


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stonn feels his anger flare up, lets it warm him. Although he may be drawn to them like a moth to flame, he is not one of these proud, arrogant Surakisi, with their impossible standards and eternal judgment. He will not let himself be controlled by his emotions, but neither will he seek to repress them totally. The Surakisi breed leaders and politicians, soldiers and judges, but seldom poets and painters."

Spock puts away the tricorder with practiced, precise movements.

"Explain your presence."

It is not a request.

Stonn had held out some hope for a civil, formal greeting, but if he is to be honest with himself, which he always strives to be, he carries enough anger himself to make it something of a relief to dispense with the ceremonial pleasantries.

Ceremony and lore is what got them in this mess in the first place.

"I came seeking you," Stonn repeats.

" _You seek the oasis when the storm has already risen_ ," Spock speaks the old idiom in High Vulcan, voice low and dark.

"Some people in the more cosmopolitan parts of ShiKahr actually borrow the English expression now, did you know?" Stonn counters, in standard Vulcan before he switches to the human tongue: " _Too little too late_."

Amanda, Spock's gentle, _forgiving_ , mother, taught Stonn that English idiom. He knows that Spock's knows this. He lets the long vowels of the alien language roll around in his mouth, savoring them as he always does. He is a poet, after all.

Spock says nothing, black eyes boring into the other man, hands hidden behind his back. Stonn has been shut away in a dark freighter with aliens and a grieving devastated bondmate for three months, and he wishes desperately that there was a way, any way, to get a connection, anything beyond the cold control, here… But he is not here for himself.

"You need to meet with her," Stonn says. "She is too… she won't come to you."

Spock removes a broad armband that Stonn saw locals wear during his short visit to the dome. When it detaches from Spock it leaves a red mark.

Ignoring Stonn, Spock studies it for a moment. Then he cracks its small central container open, revealing a grey, calcite substance inside. He speaks then, in measured tones, not looking at the man on the ground by his side.

"Her needs are no longer my concern, Stonn. That was settled when T'Pau made her your property after the _Kali-fee_. She is all yours now."

Stonn feels his anger flare up, lets it warm him. Although he may be drawn to them like a moth to flame, he is not one of these proud, arrogant Surakisi, with their impossible standards and eternal judgment. He will not let himself be controlled by his emotions, but neither will he seek to repress them totally. The Surakisi breed leaders and politicians, soldiers and judges, but seldom poets and painters.

ooo000ooo

"It's slavery," Stonn says, bluntly. His associates are meditating (cross-legged and with perfect postures, naturally) in the harsh glare of the midday sun behind the school. He sits in the shade by a table, a half-finished drawing in front of him. He's not going to let this go without a fight.

"It is highly theoretical issue," Spock murmurs.

"Then it's highly theoretical slavery, until it becomes highly concrete slavery. I do not see how you can defend the ceremony."

It's a controversial subject. For one thing, it skirts the subject of _pon farr_ , and they might be able to talk about that some late night out on the Forge, but not here, not in the real and regular world. For another, Spock and T'Pring are not supposed to talk about Surakisi rituals with non-Surakisi at all.

"It is part of the traditions, Stonn," T'Pring says, voice calm as a breeze by an oasis. "Surak himself told us that we must seek and find the lessons buried in the traditions, and integrate them with the logic of rational thought."

"How do you combine a respect for the integrity and individuality of all sentient life, with a barbaric tradition that says a man can never get a divorce? And that the only way a woman can get a divorce is to become a slave to another man? How do you square a reverence for all life with enforcing a fight with _lirpas_ to the death?"

"I do not know," Spock says. He blinks and opens his eyes.

"It is part of the mystery at the heart of Vulcanaity" says T'Pring, serenely. Her eyes are closed. Stonn wishes he could capture her likeness in clay, exactly like this.

He mustn't get distracted.

"How can you argue for an absolute application of logic to moral philosophy in class one minute, and then cower behind tradition and mysticism to defend practices that are illegal in modern Federation law and surely in the minds of all moral, sentient…"

"Stonn. No one challenges. We Surakisi are not pre-reform savages, even if we uphold the ceremonies," says T'Pring, opening her eyes and giving him one of her intense looks that regularly and frustratingly always cause his own logic to falter. "You can join us in silent meditation or leave us. In either case, please do so in silence."

He should leave, but of course he doesn't.

ooo000ooo

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! And thanks so much for the reviews, they really make my day.

I'm having a lot of fun playing around with Vulcan culture, exploring how the mysticism could exist in parallell with the rational, modern science-focused society.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "T'Pring is her own. I'm not a slave owner, for all that T'Pau wished to make me one."

**Chapter 4**

"T'Pring is her own. I'm not a slave owner, for all that T'Pau wished to make me one." He spits this out, arms crossed in front of him. It's a most disadvantageous starting position for any kind of physical altercation, but if he can get Spock to interact with him at all other than this cold detachment, even through blows, he'll take it.

Spock blinks, and Stonn continues before the other can speak.

"Did you think they sent us off planet because T'Pring challenged? In some sudden uncharacteristic realization that Old Vulcan Lore does not mesh so well with modern Federation law about instigating murder? No. No, T'Pau assigned us to a freighter with destination Andoria when I wouldn't go through with the chattel ceremony. And for all her philosophical interest in the old ceremonies and ways, T'Pring - the sane, normal T'Pring outside the Forge - is certainly not interested in being a slave."

Spock's eyes flicker. "I do not... "

"I told T'Pau to her face what she could do with her traditions, Spock."

He's both proud and terrified of that. Neither emotion is beneficial, but compared to the depths of despair he and his new mate have wrestled with the last months, he does not concern himself overmuch with the lapse.

"Would that you had become so stalwart and noble a day earlier, before I was driven to kill my captain," Spock says bluntly.

The warmth of the anger dies in Stonn's chest. It was always just a temporary respite from the guilt, anyway.

"Yes. Would that I had." Silence. "Spock… T'Pring… She wasn't rational."

Spock is taking the waterskin - Stonn only brought one - and pouring the calcite substance from the armband down into it with stiff movements.

"I agree," the Starfleet officer says, finally. He starts shaking the waterskin. "She was as trapped as I was, between the blood fever and T'Pau."

"Then you…"

"Logically, I can find no fault in _her_."

The implications are obvious, but Spock spells them out with relentless force:

"Of the three of us, you were the only one who was not affected by the _plak tow_ \- the only one rational enough to stop what happened."

Ah. The anger comes back, swirling in tandem with the guilt this time. He lets it sweep over him, because you cannot out-logic a Surakisi. He knows this from long experience.

"Stop it? You submit yourself to these barbaric Surakisi ceremonies, and then stand there and demand that I break them for you?"

"Unlike me you were there of your own free will, at our barbaric ceremony."

"Free will? If you think that, you truly understand nothing."

"I understand that you wanted to fight me. For possession of T'Pring. Where was your vaunted southern pragmatism, your modern ethics?"

_Where were you?_

He falters at that. "I… I tried to stand in the human's place, Spock…" Yes, he had tried that. But Spock zeroes in on the gap in his logic like a hawk.

"Was that what you did, Stonn? Tell me now that your motivation was to protect my captain, our alien visitors, and I will have nothing but praise for you."

It's a tantalizing offer. It could have been true, maybe. But no.

The truth is that at the time, with the drums and the incense and her scent in his nostrils, he wonders if he did not catch a bit of the blood fever himself. He remembers wanting to fight Spock. That T'Pring was _his_ , that she had just said that she had chosen _him_. He remembers struggling with that feeling. He remembers a half-formed plan about a neck pinch, but also a deep-seated longing for blood. He remembers the sudden fury when T'Pring chose the human _over him_.

They are excuses. He should have found a way. He's always seen himself as free of the old ways. Independent and modern. But he just stood there, doing nothing, when the two Starfleet officers fought with sharpened _lirpas_ , as the higher gravity brought the human lower and lower.

He'd only ever seen _lirpas_ in a museum before that. And in the exercise rooms of Spock's and T¨Pring's parents' estates. They were never a part of his world. They never should have been.

Guilt and anger wrestle and embrace. He grabs a handful of dirt, lets it fall through his fingers. He should have recovered from the run by now, but it's still hard to breathe. Hard to think.

"There is nothing that I can say that can excuse it. Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes. I… I should have demanded that she stop the ceremony. I broke the fifth ethical tenet, and then crashed through the eighth and eleventh by the sheer force of my inactivity. Do you think I do not know that? We learnt those tenets side by side, Spock. All… three of us."

He is breathing hard, eyes desperate. This is what the masters always warn about, being gripped and controlled and tossed around by your emotions like a loose tent in a storm. He needs an anchor, but T'Pring is too wrapped up in her own storm and they have no one else.

"I ask your forgiveness." He wishes that he sounded more penitent. That he was more penitent. If shame was the only feeling in him right now, everything would be so much easier. "I'd kneel and beg for your forgiveness with a full _tevyah_ ceremony, Spock, but right now I cannot for the life of me stomach another High Vulcan ritual, so ordinary words are all I have. I ask forgiveness."

Spock studies him.

"You do not sound repentant, Stonn. You sound furious."

ooo000ooo

_**Author's note: Thanks for the reviews and your reflections about the characters' motivations and Vulcan culture. The way I see it there has to be an overriding Federation law, and then local planetary laws. And then local planetary customs, which might not be the same as the laws but, as we all know from real life, can be just as important and life changing as any laws.** _

_**The observant Cobaltblue helped me find an inconsistency with metric / imperial measurements, so thanks!** _


	5. Chapter 5

 

“You do not sound repentant, Stonn. You sound furious.”

Spock’s voice is inflectionless and Stonn is too far gone to try to deduce any hints from his eyes and hands...

His breath comes in short quick stabs. He digs his fingernails into his palms and shakes with the effort to contain his emotions.  “I am. I cannot let it go. I am so... angry.”

His voice is low. Is he pleading or accusing? He doesn’t know.

“I did not know she would challenge until the procession left the temple, Spock. We had said good-bye the evening before. She was adamant that she would do her duty, that the two of you would bind your houses together for the greater good of Vulcan. She’ll never admit to love, she’s too Surakisi for that, but she allowed that her… affection for me made it difficult to do that duty. But not impossible. Logic above all else. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”

He knows his bitterness permeates his voice, and that maybe his own brand of Vulcan arrogance, the Southern ideal that they are capable of balancing emotion and logic side by side, has acted as an alibi to letting go of a little too much control. This is dangerous, but he cannot stop now.

“I did not know, Spock. And then you must have landed on the planet, because T’Pring hadn’t shown a single sign of the _plak tow_ herself, but then suddenly she was convulsing. They wouldn’t let me touch her. Then she was up again, speaking, walking, but it was as if… she wasn’t there.” Things had been strange before, but that was when everything started falling apart.

“She’s an economist! She’s a modern Vulcan woman, but suddenly she was speaking like some lady from the time of the Reformation - all about claiming and riding the fever. She mind-melded with T’Pau, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Even now, she won’t tell me what happened in the meld, saying that it’s women’s lore.”

It is only when Spock’s controlled anger lessens somewhat in force, that Stonn becomes aware exactly how pervasive it has been around them. T’Pring can be the same. It draws people to them - some are challenged and provoked by it, some are fascinated.

 _The Surakisi breed heroes or villains - you will not know which until it is too late_ … It is a derogatory old saying, in his own South Vulcan dialect. It’s stereotyping and unworthy, and it fits his mood, right now.

Spock’s gaze is less intense now, and it looks like he is about to speak, but Stonn knows that if he doesn’t say this now, it will never be said.

He grabs the other’s arm.

“Yes, I am furious. I am furious with you. Both of you. I don’t have the right, but it doesn’t lessen the fact that I am. Where I am from, another name for the plak-tow is ‘the time of bitter truths’, and the two of you should have known that you couldn’t beat the lore with logic. It does not matter what the healers said about your mental compatibility. The _plak tow,_ the _pon farr,_ it’s not about mental compatibility.”

He tightens his grip. “It’s about lust and mating, and for all that the two of you wanted that marriage, you never wanted each other - do you think you would have been able to speak through the _plak tow_ otherwise? And in the end that was all that mattered, all that was left in T’Pring’s mind once the fever had burnt through.”

“You should have broken the bond years ago, Spock. Either of you.” _But you never listen to me._

 

ooo000ooo

 

“Do you believe that I am a suitable mate for T’Pring, Stonn?”

Spock has just come back to Vulcan after more than three years of travel with his parents. The three of them have become more distant, more typically Vulcan, during this time. This is most likely good, Stonn thinks. The most confusing adolescent years are behind Stonn, he tells himself, but he thinks that Spock’s control seems to be even more erratic – the hybrid is the image of Vulcan emotionless perfection one moment, but confused and emotional the next. It is clear that his relationship with his father has become acutely tense, lately.

His relationship with everyone seems to be tense, in fact.

Spock has always been wary of the interest he evokes in other Vulcans. The outright xenophobia has lessened as the hybrid’s talents has revealed himself - he is a statistical outlier in most fields: a mathematical genius, a celebrated musician. Yet all his successes, and his failures, are interpreted in light of his mixed blood. He is a genius, _despite_ being a hybrid, they say. He is probably such a thought-provoking musician _because_ of his human genes, they say. Exoticism.

It will be years before Stonn truly realizes exactly how deep wounds this constant scrutiny has left in his friend, and how utterly abandoned Spock perceived himself, when not even those closest to him were able to not see his genetics first.

Spock has many associates, a healthy social network, Stonn thinks now, as he guides their flyer down towards the blinking lights of ShiKahr. But lately the hybrid has begun examining it more closely - almost in a paranoid fashion, in Stonn’s opinion. How many of them are only interested in him because of the notoriety of his birth? Is it his proofs and his theorems or his exoticness that draws them to him? He seems to be testing his associates, and several have already failed, their attempts at contact suddenly coldly rebuffed. Stonn thought he and T’Pring would be exempt, but this question makes him wonder.

There is only one answer, of course.

“No. You know I do not think you are suitable. Excellent colleagues and associates, but not mates.”

“Because I do not desire her.”

“Yes.” He glances at the other. “Or she you.”

“It will come. Or do you think that my blood makes me unable to go into _pon farr_?”

It is a crude question. Stonn dislikes being tested and answers in the same vein. “T’Pring certainly thinks so. Not that it seems to matter to her. I would not presume to know, but I do know that unlike every other young Vulcan I know, you view _pon farr_ as something despicable and tainted. Something to be dreaded. You think your bondmate doesn’t see that that’s how you think of it? Of her?”

“Because I am not fully Vulcan.” Spock’s words are swirling, sharp-cut _ter wohn_ discs.

“Possibly. And maybe your current behavior and attitude is also brought on by some strange alien chemicals in your blood. It would certainly make it easier to excuse.”

“And how do you, Stonn, as a full Vulcan, view the issue of your _pon farr_ , specifically when it comes to the matter of my bondmate?”

The discussion goes downhill from there.

Stonn is not surprised when Amanda tells him of the blistering argument between Spock and Sarek, or the fact that Spock leaves Vulcan without his father’s permission (required by lore, but not by law) to join Starfleet. Like Sarek, he assumes that the proud, conflicted young man will return to Vulcan within a year or two. He will say nothing, he decides, when that happens. Will simply try to welcome Spock back. Spock’s Surakisi clan might demand a _tevyah_ ritual from him to mend fences, but Stonn is a southerner and quite capable of rising above such things. T’Pring maintains that all is well between her and Spock. She takes over management of his property.

If nothing else, Spock will have to come back for his _pon farr,_ Stonn thinks. T’Pring and Spock, scions of their houses, a perfect political and intellectual match. Joined together in the most ancient, of Surakisi rituals. It will all but guarantee T’Pring a seat in the High Command and be the ultimate vindication of Sarek and Amanda’s decision to have a hybrid child: no one will question Spock's Vulcanaity after that. T’Pring deserves that, has planned for it for years. Her desire are not relevant, she tells Stonn. It certainly is not relevant that he desires her.

He has said his piece, but she has made her choice, she has planned her future, and in the end he will of course support her, _them_ , in this. Anything else would be dishonorable, one does not have to be Surakisi to know that.

Stonn only wishes ruins on those plans very late at night, when he runs the Forge alone.

 

ooo000ooo

_**Author's note: Two more chapters to go, after this! Remember that Stonn is at least partly an unreliable narrator, with conflicting emotions, if you find his characterizations of Spock too harsh. What do you think of the chapter?** _

_**Thanks so much for your reviews - I look forward to them and get happy every time my phone pings :).** _


	6. Chapter 6

****Spock's face doesn't show anything. Of course it doesn't. Short of physically attacking him, Stonn doesn't know what else he can do to get him to react, to do _something_. He has tried logic, tattered as it might be. He has begged, and raised his voice, and invoked their friendship. He has no more cards left to play. Southern passion can no more breach ShiKahr logic than his ancestors' forces could take that impenetrable fortress.

Suddenly he's exhausted. He steps backwards.

"I wish I could have come to you with my thoughts disciplined and ordered. I wish I had a fool-proof defense, a logical path untainted by jumbled emotions. I wish… that there was some way for the two of us, the three of us, to remain… _katen_. I wish many things, but _if wishes were like clouds, it would rain every day._ But I… am not important here." He points upwards to the left - they both know exactly where all the ships and docking bays lie in relation to each other in geosynchronous orbit above.

"She's on the freighter, and the two of you need to talk. Let her do the _tevyah_ , or do the _tevyah_ to her, or do it together in full Surakisi noble mysticism, or just sit and talk like ordinary survivors would after something like this shatters your world. But do something. I... beg you."

He wets his lips, looks down. He has nothing left to bargain with, and the pride and fury that were shields a few minutes ago, are now simply too exhausting. He falls to his knees. His head is spinning.

_"_ _When the sand storm has passed, we must still heal the desert together."_

It is another Old High Vulcan quote, this time from that other Spock, Surak's disciple, the Great Unifier. As much a legend to modern Vulcan children as this Spock has become through his far-flung travels among the stars.

For a full twenty-three heartbeats, the desert is still and silent. Stonn feels that his breathing becomes labored. Then Spock moves into his personal space and he has to brace himself to not let his body instinctively sink into a defensive position. He lets his mental shields drop, but Spock only lifts his chin up until there is no escaping his gaze.

Then, as when shades are opened up, Stonn feels Spock's shields deliberately roll down. The other man is still guarded, but there is a blessed steadiness there and a calmness that feels like the first glorious drops of autumn rain on the parched earth.

"For a poet, your Old High Vulcan pronunciation leaves much to be desired." Spock says, drily and pulls him up.

"Drink this. It should be dissolved enough by now" Spock holds up the waterskin, with the strange calcite substance in it. Stonn hesitates for half a second before he brings it to his lips. The taste is horrible and he nearly gags.

"All of it."

Stonn drinks it. Is this a penance? Is this part of some strange symbolic Surakisi ceremony of forgiveness?

He asks and is rewarded by a raised eyebrow.

"A few minutes outside the dome is perfectly fine, Stonn. Running out into the DE3 desert with no radiation medication is ill-advised, however. This is the quickest way for you to get the counteragent in you, since you neglected to carry a dosage apparatus that injected it slowly through your skin."

"...Radiation?"

"I assumed that was your plan, to force me to come after you?"

"Ah. I had not…"

"Quite thought out your plan in detail?"

"I am a poet, Spock. I leave the plans to you and T'Pring." He blinks. "But you…"

"My hybrid physique means that I am unaffectedly by this particular type of radiation. I wear it because local law requires it of everyone."

He should really have read up more on the little planetoid. But once he learned that the Enterprise was in orbit around the dome settlement, it was difficult to focus on anything else.

Spock's hands are still on his arms, steadying him. After another minute, Stonn's breathing is easier again and the half-Vulcan speaks.

"For someone who has asked to be forgiven, you have seemed most unwilling to give me an opportunity to speak."

Spock tightens his grip on his arms. They are in a desert, albeit far from their home star. It is the place for such things.

"I am not prepared to say that the cause was sufficient. I wish that you had attempted to disrupt the ceremony in some way, but I admit that in the moments when I was lucid, I thought T'Pau would stop it before it went as far as it did… before he died. Before I killed him."

Stonn closes his eyes. He had never seen anyone killed before that day, and since then he's seen it in endless loops behind his eyes. The worst part is that he remembers feeling nothing but a possessive yearning and jealous fury directed at Spock and Kirk when it actually happened. Maybe it was the strange leaves burning in the incense, maybe it was a biological drive that kicked in for him as well, maybe it was the way T'Pring smelled, maybe, just maybe, it wasn't really his fault at all… Or maybe those desires are always within him, just waiting, and he is deluding himself. Maybe the Surakisi are right to be paranoid over emotions.

"You are right, Stonn." Spock says, and releases him. "T'Pring and I should have dissolved the bond years ago. T'Pau should not have insisted on carrying on the ancient rites. You should have been stronger. But none of that helps us now. We must… put it behind us."

"...How?"

"I do not know. But I have given my captain my word to let go of my guilt over my own actions that day - to forgive myself, as the humans say," Spock continues. "If I am to do that, I must extend the same courtesy to T'Pring and you. Forgiveness should come easy to any true follower of Surak, but in this I have realized how far I have yet to travel on that path."

They are quiet for a while. When the autumn sand storms finally die, up there in the strange Surakisi land that Stonn has come to call home, it is sudden and jarring, leaving Stonn cautious but relieved, eyes taking in a world reborn, a landscape fundamentally changed - until the next storm will rearrange it again. Stonn can feel Spock beginning a breathing exercise, and he follows, copying it. He knows that there is something that he needs to acknowledge now, before he can go on. But he hesitates. Spock seems to understand anyway.

 _"_ _Forgiveness is like water seeping into the ground: it matters not what is deserved, only what is needed_. Another Surakisi idiom for your collection." Spock takes a deep breath. "We will have to find the path together. I will... speak to T'Pring."

ooo000ooo

_**Author's Note: One more chapter to go! I hope you're enjoying my High Vulcan poems :). Thanks for all your thoughtful and reflective comments (and  the kudos)!** _


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Spock’s attention is suddenly caught by something, and wry chagrin flashes through his face for a moment. “That will, however, have to wait. Please stand back.”

He hesitates, and then adds. “It might be best if you were to stand over there, away from me.”

Stonn obeys, confused. It’s another second before he hears the high pitched sound of a transporter beam. Another advantage of Spock’s hybrid physique.

Stonn had expected dome security to materialize, but instead it is a small group of aliens, led by a gold-clad figure he remembers with uncomfortable clarity from that day on Vulcan.

He’s surprised at the level of emotional unpleasantness involved with having a phaser pointed directly at him.

He has seen this happen in the holo-dramas favored by a Tellarite co-author of his, but it is not the same to experience it in real life. He considers raising his hands, as they do in the holos, but opts to stay stock-still instead. After three point two seconds the phaser is fortunately lowered, and the captain directs his full attention at Spock.

“Spock! Are you alright?” As usual, the humans are emoting all over. The captain is protective and worried, a blue clad physician (McCoy. Also familiar. Unfortunately.) is angry and worried. The station security officer who came with them is looking rather disappointed with the lack of action.

“Perfectly fine, Captain.”

“Fine? Don’t give me fine, you blasted idiot,” McCoy is waving his tricorder all over Spock in angry motions and then directs the machine over at Stonn, transferring his glare between the Vulcans. “Disappearing together with this cretin is not ‘fine’.”

McCoy sizes Stonn up with his eyes as well as the tricorder. He tries to be as still as possible. He likes humans in general, but they can be unpredictable, and these might be expected to carry some anger towards him, and have been trained for violence.

“They’re not hurt, Jim,” the physician finally allows. “Whatever they did here, it wasn’t fighting.”

Spock and the captain are still looking at each other, in a silent parallel conversation to the one that the half-Vulcan is effortlessly carrying on with the doctor.

“We were simply conversing up until the moment we were interrupted, Doctor.” Spock says, blandly. “And as Stonn is a civilian, and fortunate enough to not in any way be under your power, you should refrain from using slurs.”

“Slurs! He…! You…! Vulcan…! Blasted ceremony…!  The airlock!” McCoy sputters.

“Bones, if Spock says it’s fine, then it’s fine,” Kirk says.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious, Doctor. Drop it.”

“One of them destroyed an airlock out of the dome, Captain,” says the dome security woman with a frown. “I can’t drop that.”

“I am sure that was… an accident.” The captain smiles at the security officer, and she tentatively smiles back and then blushes, and nods. Stonn always thought that Amanda had a quick changing temperament, but experience has taught him that she is a well of steady calm compared to other humans who will change their moods and opinions _at the drop of a hat_ , as they say. It’s intriguing.

“Mr. Spock here will personally repair your airlock, Enforcer,” the captain continues, voice warm, “And if you have any other high tech issues with your computers, I’m sure he would be more than happy to lend you his expertise. Though there are some other issues that I assume must be taken care of first, Commander?”

“Yes, Captain.”

 

“Alright.” The captain rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, his gaze locks directly with Spock and once again it's as if there is an unspoken communication between them. When the captain speaks it's merely a polite gesture for the rest of the world.

“Bones, me and Spock are taking a walk. We’ve been cooped up for too long. Then we’ll take care of the airlock and… some other business. Expect us back sometime later tonight, alright?”

“A walk! This atmosphere is poisonous, man!”

“As the captain is wearing his armband, it will be safe outside the dome for another forty eight minutes, Doctor. Rest assured I will make certain that we are back before that.”

The human physician makes a peculiar noise by blowing a short burst of air out his noise. But then he purses his lips, going from incensed to accepting in a matter of seconds. No Vulcan could calm down that fast, Stonn thinks.

“And that weird sludge you carry around in your veins give you a get-out-of-jail-card… Alright, but no more than thirty minutes, though, you hear me!”

Stonn freezes. Is the human a xenophobe? But Spock is relaxed, shows no indication that he considers the irascible human offensive or an annoyance. In fact, Spock is as calm here as Stonn has ever seen him, and then only when they were out on the Forge as youngsters.

It cannot be the place, it follows that it must be the people.

“Doctor, I would never risk the captain’s health.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now run along and play.”

The gold clad human has been looking around the strange landscape while his officers bickered. At the doctor’s last comment he laughs, and somehow neither it nor the way his subordinates talk about him detract from the aura of leadership he projects. Stonn assumes this is one of the reasons why Spock seems to be inordinately focused on him.

“Alright,” the captain says. “Enforcer, Mr. Spock will com you when we get back. Bones, we’ll catch you later. Mr. Stonn…” Stonn finds himself under scrutiny and silent evaluation for an uncomfortable sixteen seconds. “Stay out of trouble,” the human finally finishes.

“Indeed,” murmurs Spock.

A few minutes ago, Stonn had no trouble recognizing his friend: all those strong volatile emotions held back by an iron control, sometimes slipping loose, are familiar from their youth. But now there is a relaxed serenity in the man before him that he has rarely seen in Sarek’s son before.

“Stonn, wait for me in the freighter.”

“As you wish.”

The two starfleet officers take off without another word, heading for a dune spread with strange looking blue-green stones, remnants of the terraforming process. Kirk is already gesticulating and pointing at the rocks as if the scene he came upon just a few minutes ago is no longer important to discuss.

Stonn and the doctor look at the retreating figures in silence until they are approximately forty meters away. Then the human whirls suddenly towards him and points a finger uncomfortably close to his eye.

“Now you listen to me, Stenn or Stonn or whatever your name is.” the human is hissing, and Stonn realizes that he must be aware of Spock’s range of hearing. “I don’t know what happened out here, but the last time I saw you, you looked willing to kill my friend, and you were more than willing to let my other friend die. I don’t care if you’ve somehow tricked Spock into looking past all that - no, shut up or I’ll inject you with this hypo, see if I don’t - but that man is one of the most honorable people I know, and if it were up to me, you shouldn’t be trusted with being near him. You lot don’t deserve him.”

The finger makes small stabbing movements towards him, and Stonn takes a half step backwards. He has no interest or reason to argue.

“Yes,” he simply says. The human’s eyes widen and then narrow in suspicion, but after a few seconds he grunts and lowers his hand.

“Well then.” He glares at the impassive Vulcan before him. “Hmph. Well, I want to get you inside - you should be safe now, but whatever possessed you to drink your tetra-calcite all at once instead of just wearing the dispenser from the beginning?”

“It… seemed the logical thing to do at the time.”

“Ha.” The doctor makes a move towards his communicator, but Stonn halts him with a gesture.

“Doctor… Your captain and Spock. They have a... connection?”

“A co-dependent psychological neurosis is what we call it in the trade, but yes” But the human doesn’t seem very serious however. He shakes his head and purses his lips. “ _T’hyla_ , Spock calls it.”

 _T’hyla._ Suddenly Stonn is filled with complicated emotions that will take a long time to sort through.

The doctor’s eyes narrow, “They won’t talk about it much, though. What exactly is a _t’hyla_?”

“I… do not know exactly, Doctor. It is an ancient soul bond, associated with pre-reformation Warriors among the Surakisi.”

That is as much as he knows. T’Pring will know more.

“Of course it is! Of course it is ancient and mystical and complicated and not-for-outsiders! I tell you, I’ve had it up to _here_ with ancient Vulcan traditions. No offense,” the human adds grudgingly.

“Believe me, Doctor, I quite agree.”

THE END

ooo000ooo

_Author's note: And that's a wrap! Thanks so much for all your reviews along the way. I think twisting and turning established tropes is the best part of fanfic writing: it's a bit like haikus. You have all these restrictions about what you can do, and it's all about how you navigate those restrictions. Even if you found some things surprising, I hope you have enjoyed this._

_Now - there's an obvious sequel to this. T'Pring and Spock. What happens on the freighter. What happened before? We have only seen their relationship through Stonn, and he is not a neutral observer whatsoever. In this fic, we know that they drifted apart and that there was never a strong emotional or lustful attraction between them. They thought they could do without it, but when plak tow descended, their innermost desires overwhelmed their rational, cold, logical decisions. That's a cool tell to tale! EDIT: I should write this... Maybe explore that tevyah ritual? :)_


End file.
